Loving Lily Evans
by scared of clouds
Summary: James Potter isn't very sure of much, but he is sure about Lily Evans. Lily and James one shot, second person perspective. Cover art by Burdge-Bug.


**A/N: So this is a sort of sequel to another of my one-shots, Watching James Potter, but you definitely don't need to have read that, this can be stand-alone. It's just me messing about with second-person perspective really, and trying to get into James' head a little.**

**I do not own any of the characters from Harry Potter, everything belongs to JK Rowling.**

**(J&L) (J&L) (J&L) (J&L) (J&L) (J&L) (J&L) (J&L) (J&L) (J&L) (J&L) (J&L) (J&L) (J&L) (J&L) (J&L) (J&L) (J&L) (J&L) (J&L) (J&L)**

You aren't exactly sure when you first noticed her, but it was a long time ago, probably right back in first year; she's _always _been difficult to overlook. You can't even remember now what it was about her that drew your eye first. But you _do_ remember that there was one day when you looked at her and it was like seeing her for the first time all over again. It hit you hard, like a blow to the gut that knocked the wind out of you.

You know you aren't the only one who's looked in that direction either; other eyes beside yours follow her around, whether she's wandering around Hogsmeade in a bulky winter coat, walking through the corridors in one of those ridiculously short school skirts that you've _never _approved of, or sitting in the common room in her pyjamas.

But none of that matters, because _no-one else_ looks at her like you do, through love-clouded eyes and a haze of admiration. You're lovesick, and you aren't even remotely ashamed of it, no matter what Padfoot says _or_ how loudly he says it.

You'll never be exactly clear on why she eventually said yes, you're just incredibly glad she did.

It was an odd day, that day you finally managed to ask her again, having avoided doing so for so long. There was nothing special about it, except that Flitwick was sick and you were both excused from sitting in Charms doing nothing to go and get some Head's work done instead. You sat in that stuffy office, only feet away from her, and you listened to her hum tunelessly as she scribbled in the detention ledger. You sat there, and you pretended to be doing points calculations until you couldn't take it anymore, and then you just blurted out the question. And she smiled at you, she gave you this slow fucking smile that made your heart plaster itself to the inside of your ribcage, and she said yes and she kissed you, and _then _you found out that she'd only been pretending to work too.

And now you can't imagine not having her, she's built into you somehow; she's yours, but you're hers too, and you will always think of this as some kind of miracle that you aren't entirely sure you've done anything good enough to deserve.

So you watch her all the time now, even more than you used to before she said that little three letter word, but that's okay because you're officially _allowed_ to. Other people _aren't,_ no matter what she says about it being inappropriate for the Head Boy to hex someone; it's inappropriate to leer at the Head Girl too.

You look for her in the stands when you come out at the start of a Quidditch match, just so you know she's there and watching you; part of you always wants to blow her a kiss or stand up on your broom and scream that you love her, but you know she'd hate it so you repress the urges. Sometimes she comes to your practices, and_ then_ you indulge your exhibitionist side and show off relentlessly for her, drawing as much attention to her as possible until she blushes and starts slapping at you whenever you fly past her, laughing as she attempts to tell you off for embarrassing her.

You sit with her friends in the common room in the evenings, or she sits with yours, and you watch her hair slowly unwind itself from that tight bun she always tames it into at the start of the day, as she gestures with her hands when she speaks, and throws her head back when she laughs. This is how you like her best, when she's laughing and happy and there are no worry lines on her face. She deserves happiness like this, and you just wish you could wrap her in a bubble of it, far away from the outside world.

You love to bury your face in that hair, love the smell and the feel of it, just like you love everything about her face, from those startlingly green eyes to the curve of her cheeks. Her lips are probably your favourite part of her, and you know that's a cliché, but you don't really care about that either, because no-one who'd ever kissed Lily Evans' lips could deny that they were extraordinary.

You study with her in the library a lot these days too, although if you were honest you'd probably get more work done if she wasn't there, because she's so damned distracting and it's such an appealing idea to tempt her away from the textbooks and into the stacks, where no-one can see you and you can litter her neck with little red marks. Some days those little marks don't seem like enough – you'd brand yourself into her very skin if you could – but they'll have to do until the day you can give her another kind of mark entirely. Like a surname.

But until then, it's enough that you have her, that you spend your time wrapped up in Lily Evans, physically and emotionally. Spending time with her like this is somehow exactly how you'd thought it would be and yet completely different all at once.

You walk around the grounds together, hands clasped or arms brushing or just _touching _in some way, because _really_, how are you supposed to be this close to her and not touch her? And she listens to your stories and laughs at your jokes no matter how bad they are, which you_ love_ about her, because really, she doesn't have to tolerate your stupidity does she?

And it's not all jokes and happiness, though you wish it could be; you talk seriously as well, usually at the top of the astronomy tower when you've sneaked up under the cloak, or in deserted corridors while you're patrolling. You tell her about Padfoot and Moony and how worried you are for them, and her, and your parents and _everyone _who's caught up in this stupid conflict, and she understands and doesn't offer you any hollow words, just squeezes your hand a little tighter in hers. She talks about Petunia and Vernon, her worries for her parents, and about Snape, and you find yourself fighting your more murderous impulses when you think about everyone who's hurt her for stupid, ridiculous reasons that make no sense to you. You will never understand how anyone could look at Lily Evans and see anything other than the beautiful, clever, extraordinary girl that you love.

Still, you hear the words that get slung about in the corridors, not _just _at her it's true, but when they_ are_ directed at her then it becomes _personal_. Those are the days when that Head Boy badge doesn't feel like the dead weight of responsibility, but like an instrument of justice instead. You said that to her once and she laughed so hard she fell off her chair, and when she finally managed to get up again she called you a melodramatic prat and kissed you until you saw stars.

You'll never really understand how this happened, not if you analysed it for a hundred years. Even _Moony _doesn't understand, so there's no hope for the rest of you.

It doesn't matter anyway. Because Lily Evans is yours, and you're hers, and one day she won't_ be_ Lily Evans anymore, and _that _day will overtake the day she said yes to become the best day of your life.

Because right now, if there's one thing that you can be completely sure of, it's that you will never stop loving Lily Evans.

**(J&L) (J&L) (J&L) (J&L) (J&L) (J&L) (J&L) (J&L) (J&L) (J&L) (J&L) (J&L) (J&L) (J&L) (J&L) (J&L) (J&L) (J&L) (J&L) (J&L) (J&L)**

**A/N: Feedback is wonderful, whether it's 'loved it', 'hated it' or even a random assortment of words. I'm on Tumblr (scared-of-clouds) if anyone wants to talk writing, HP or pretty much anything else actually.**

**Thanks for reading x**


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